


If love was a blood sport (Then you'd be the grand prize)

by maccabird_23



Series: Fuck the Ten-year Plan [7]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maccabird_23/pseuds/maccabird_23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was his first real test and his burden to bear. Jack might have been a mistake – a nuisance nagging at his heel but Johnny was something completely different. He was wearing number 19 – after Sakic – standing tall and maybe ten pounds heavier since Worlds. He was every crippling doubt that Patrick ever had and every wonderful chance that he could never achieve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If love was a blood sport (Then you'd be the grand prize)

 

 

Patrick knew he was in for a rough ride from the first day of prospect camp. He’d put on five pounds of muscle and felt a certain pride when he stepped on the scale the first day of camp – hearing it ping him in at 163lbs. The strength and endurance coach had eyed him wearily – taking note in his big, white binder.

 

“Ten more pounds and maybe you won’t be knocked off your skates.” Staccato and sterile – his point was blunt. Pat was small – running on the fumes of his skill instead of his size. It was a challenge more than a complaint and he ran with it.

 

The ice was the same and the flat sheet let him show off what he’d spent years cultivating. He stickhandled through guys twice his size like they were turnstiles – daring them to try and take the puck with his speed. It was different than London and even World Juniors. Everyone skated with more purpose – knowing their place on the ice with certainty most teen players didn’t have.  

 

Patrick would’ve been nervous but it had never been his way. Once he hit the ice all the uncertainties of the real world melted away – endorphins replacing doubt and feeding his competiveness.

 

By the second day Pat had become some sort of totem for players with a chip on their shoulder – guys who were trying to prove their skill to the coaches and management. Going at him to show they were more competent than the wet-behind-the-ears eighteen year old.

 

Skille tried to check him into the boards – knock the puck off his stick but Pat was faster. He squeezed passed the 6’1 wall – letting him plant face first against the glass. He laughed, moving the puck back and forth with quick swishes as he skated backwards.

 

Jack skated at him, stopping when they were pressed chest to chest behind the goalie net – just inside the trapezoid. Pat looked up, giving the older player a blinding smile. They had had their fun at World Juniors – on and off the ice. If finger banging and handies counted for anything then Jack should remember him well.

 

“Cut me a break, Pattie. Some of us actually have to try to make the roster.” Pat could feel his smile waver. He and Skille both played right wing and roster spots were never promised. Not even to number one draft picks.

 

“Not a chance Skills. Not a chance.” Off the ice they could be best friends – maybe even rekindle something that they started during Worlds but on the ice Pat would never let anything get in the way of his main goal. Making the Blackhawks.

 

Patrick didn’t let the glower Jack left him with settle – choosing to pick on Bickell next. He’d taken the number 88, which Kane had wanted and he had a bone to pick. Bryan was an ogre. Huge and strong but he grinned – teeth missing - at Kane with gentle mirth. Pat hoped he made the roster.

 

For his part, Pat avoided most of the landmines he knew training camp had in store for him. He kept his head up – setting up plays and only stopping when the whistle blew. He was sweating through his pads by the time the coach had called his name and Jonathan’s – for them to get on a line together.

 

This was his first real test and his burden to bear. Jack might have been a mistake – a nuisance nagging at his heel but Johnny was something completely different. He was wearing number 19 – after Sakic – standing tall and maybe ten pounds heavier since Worlds. He was every crippling doubt that Patrick ever had and every wonderful chance that he could never achieve.  

 

It should have been difficult to play with him – slide him a sweet saucer pass or bank a goal off him as he went hard to the net but it wasn’t. Maybe it was their history – knowing each other’s skills and how hard they could push but it was electric. Some kind of innate chemistry - Pat knew exactly where Johnny would be on the ice and vice versa.

 

By the time they hit the locker room Patrick was on fire – sweat and endorphins making him feel like he would vibrate right out of his own skin. The cool palm pressed right between his shoulder blades was both a blessing and a curse. He wanted nothing more than to wash away any left over energy under hot sprays but he had always been a leech for human touch after games. Maybe it caused more trouble than it was worth.

 

He broke the contact, sitting down at his locker and not meeting Jon’s gaze. Taking off his clothes would only be harder if he had to reconcile that Johnny was stripping him bare with just one look.

 

“Skille has it out for you.” The words were whispered but there was anger in Jonathan’s voice. 

 

“I know. He already came at me. I dealt with it.” Patrick wasn’t a damsel and he certainly didn’t need Johnny fighting his battles. You had to be fast or dirty to ever knock him off his skates. He’d proven that long ago.

 

“Not on the ice. He was telling some guys on the bench that he fucked you the night you guys won bronze.” The anger was still there but it was aimed at Kane – admonishing and accusing. And now Pat knew the score.

 

“What’s it to you if two loser fucked around after meddling bonze?” Pat wasn’t a good liar, especially about his sexual exploits. Any half sane guy could tell he was lying. He hadn’t screwed anyone after Jon and he certainly didn’t get more than three fingers of Skille before that. But he could tell that Johnny wasn’t thinking with his brain – if the furious red he turned was any indication.

 

“Well, fuck you too then.” Jonathan didn’t have any finesse when upset. A mess of loud words and spastic limbs as he stormed off to the shower – knocking into bodies as he passed. It would have turned heads anywhere else but a rowdy locker room – where it went unnoticed. Something Patrick was more than grateful for.  

 

His billet family was kind enough to give him the whole basement but he couldn’t get comfortable with the sweltering heat of July in the Midwest. His naked back stuck to the cotton sheets – curls gathering sweat at the nape of his neck. He’d kill for the cooler summer of Buffalo and his sisters’ soothing laughs – telling him that boys were dumb.

 

“They’re the worst.” He whispered to the ceiling as he thumbed through his phone - his finger landing on Skille. He wanted to call and let him know what a piece of shit he was. Hear his voice get angry when he told him that he had a small dick and that he’d be shipped back to Norfolk before the summer was over. Hockey players were easy to rouse – all you had to do was insult their skills on the ice or in the sheets.

 

Patrick paused mid-dial – noticing the name just before Skille’s. _SC_ was inconspicuous to anyone else. A teenager too lazy to type out a whole name but Pat had labeled it with purpose. He didn’t want anyone to discover that he had Sidney Crosby’s phone number.  

 

The Pens had been eliminated in the first round but Sid had been cool under all the pressure – posting a point per game. He’d been named captain soon after. There was something unbreakable about Crosby. Maybe it was just Pat’s memory making everything glossy and ideal where there should be imperfections. But Sid’s presence in the back of his mind – his easy smile - was a cool relief from Johnny’s angry accusations.

 

 Maybe he could call him or even text. Ask him for some advise – solace from this mess of mixed emotions. Just for a few minutes. Maybe just hearing his voice would be enough. _I wish I could keep you._ He closed his eyes and let the words echo through his skull.

 

There was a knock at his window. He opened his eyes - looking over to meet two dark, eyes just visible through the fading, evening light. It would have been frightening if Patrick hadn’t known them so well. He threw his phone on the bed – letting thoughts of Sid get lost in the sheets and went to open the window.  

 

Letting in a six-foot and two-hundred plus guy with rage issues might seem like a bad idea but Pat remembered how Johnny spoke soft, French words to his mother. He might have a jealous streak a mile long but you wouldn’t find a more gentlemanly, hockey player in all of Canada.

 

“What do you want, dickhead?” Pat sprawled back down on his bed – staring determinedly at the ceiling as a warm breeze brushed against his bare chest. There was a dip at the edge of the mattress – he could feel Jon’s eyes on him without looking.

 

“I kinda told Skille to stop spreading rumors or I’d break every bone in his hands.” Jonathan sounded tentative - contrite like a puppy that brought in a dead bird. “He kinda called me a freak.”

 

“You’re a full freak.” Patrick snorted, checking off dealing with Skille from the list of things he had to do. He was pissed that Johnny thought he needed help but knew that Jack would heed a warning coming from Jon before he ever listened to Patrick. “And not that it’s any of your business but what he said. It wasn’t true. Not with him or anyone. Not after you.”

 

“I suspected but I was too pissed to actually think.” Jonathan eased a palm against his foot and Patrick looked. He was all round, sorrowful eyes and pouty mouth. Kane bit at his bottom lip – not wanting to forgive so easily. Not when there was so much doubt pouring down on their whole mess of a relationship. Combine was less stressful than this.

 

Then Johnny started messaging at the sole of his foot and he let out a moan as some of the tension broke from his body. He’d been strung tight all day – tired and achy from over working his muscles. Pat didn’t care if it was manipulative on both of their parts because at least they were both getting something they needed. He’d missed Johnny. “This is made to fail. This thing between us is the Titanic and its about to hit an iceberg.”

 

“I’ve been thinking about that. I’ve spent fucking months thinking about us.” Jon moved higher – his fingers sinking into sore hamstrings. His stream of words bouncing off the walls and Patrick was listening. “We need a plan. Brisson, Tallon, Wirtz – we need to prove ourselves to everyone. And then after we fill that building and bring the Cup back to Chicago we’re gonna come out together.”

 

Patrick could feel his lip twitching. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to smile or frown but it was a start. “It’ll take years – ten at the least. And we have to tell our families. Maybe our team mates at some point.”

 

Jonathan settled down beside him, their legs tangling in a sweaty heap and chests pressed flush against the other. Everything about Johnny – from his arms to his hold – was solid and strong. “I already told ma mère.”  

 

Pat hummed into the soft French escaping Johnny’s mouth. Playing his fingers along the hem of Jon’s shirt, feeling muscles contract under his touch. There was a trail of hair just there that he wanted to get to know a lot better. But first he needed to get reacquainted with Johnny’s mouth. The kiss was searching and Jon returned it with teeth and tongue. They only broke for air and Pat grazed his nose against Jon’s cheek – breathing in.  Feeling his warmth and smiling into it. “And what did your mother say?”

 

 “She told me I talk about you the same way I talk about hockey. And if you were that important then I should fight for you just as hard.” Their mouths met – bodies moving in rhythm and finding the release they needed in each other. In that moment anything seemed possible. Even grandiose promises made between kisses of two teenagers.    


End file.
